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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470006">The Sky But It's Falling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/surlybobbies/pseuds/surlybobbies'>surlybobbies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:01:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470006</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/surlybobbies/pseuds/surlybobbies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't like poetry? Can I ask why not?"</p><p>"Dunno, Cas. Not a lot of poetry in my life, y'know?"</p><p>Thing is, the more Dean gets to know Cas, the more untrue that becomes. </p><p>[Dean turns to poetry as he falls in love.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandom Trumps Hate 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Sky But It's Falling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaffre/gifts">zaffre</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a late FTH gift to zaffre, who bid for my work. I apologize for being late! To make it up to you, I matched your donation to RAINN. :)</p><p>I hope you like what it ended up as.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bookstore was busy for a Tuesday morning, but Dean, recently released from a large responsibility, was happy to wait in line and browse the knick-knacks by the register.</p><p>He was looking at bookmarks - maybe Eileen would appreciate a sturdier one - when another hand reached forward to browse through them too.</p><p>Dean looked at the owner of the hand.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” the man said, extending a polite smile at Dean. “Something caught my eye when you were looking through them.”</p><p>It took Dean’s brain a second to catch up with what the man had said, distracted as he was by the man’s eyes. They were spring-clear blue and would have needed at least a paragraph to properly capture them. “Yeah,” Dean said eventually, still reeling. “No problem.”</p><p>They went back to browsing. The lady at the register was buying a basket-load of books, and the line only grew behind her.</p><p>Dean picked out a bookmark for Eileen and added it to the small stack of books he was carrying.</p><p>The man was still sifting through the rows of bookmarks.</p><p>Dean cleared his throat. The man looked at him curiously, and Dean took the opening. Unfortunately, he opened with “Nice day, isn’t it?”</p><p>He would have cringed if that line had been used on him, but the man merely nodded politely at Dean. “It is.”</p><p>It was a lukewarm response at best, but Dean had caught sight of the guy’s startlingly blue eyes again and found himself desperate to keep talking. </p><p>“That’s a good book,” he said, nodding to the hardcover in the man’s hand. “You ever read anything else by Campbell?”</p><p>“No, actually,” the man replied, looking contemplatively at the cover. “This is a gift for my co-worker. Apparently she’s a huge fan but has been too busy to grab a copy for herself.”</p><p>Dean swallowed his disappointment. “You’re not a reader?”</p><p>“Oh, no, I am,” the man corrected. He was wearing a trench coat that was too big in the shoulders. “I’m not much of a sci-fi fan, however. The world-building is always so tedious to read.”</p><p>“You’re reading the wrong authors then,” Dean said, confident in a way he couldn’t be about anything else. </p><p>The man just smiled. Dean stared for a second, transfixed, and likely would have continued staring had not the cashier called for the next in line. </p><p>It was when Dean was pulling out his credit card to pay that the idea came to him. He smiled apologetically at the cashier and asked for a small favor. “Oh, and a pen, too.”</p><p>He was rung up a few short moments later. Afterward he turned and handed the man another copy of the Campbell’s book. </p><p>“Give him a chance,” Dean said, then walked away before the man had a chance to respond. With any luck, Dean knew, the guy would find the note scribbled hastily on the back of the front cover: <em>Read it and call me if I changed your mind about sci-fi. </em>Underneath his phone number, he had written <em>Dean</em> <em>Winchester.</em></p><p> </p><p>About a week later, Dean received a call from an unfamiliar phone number. He had just gotten home from the store and was about to settle in at his laptop to work. “Yeah,” he said, once he answered the call. He started inputting his laptop password one letter at a time with his free hand.</p><p>“Dean,” a voice said. “It’s - it’s the man you bought the book for?”</p><p>Dean nearly dropped his phone. “Hey,” he said, a little too loudly and a little too quickly. “You - you saw my note.”</p><p>“Yes,” the voice said. “I never got to say thank you for the book.”</p><p>“Did you actually read it?” Dean let a little surprise leak into his tone.</p><p>“Of course I did - I couldn’t let your purchase go to waste.”</p><p>“How was it? Did it change your mind?”</p><p>There was a smile in the man’s voice. “It did. I was taken aback by how much I enjoyed it. You have good taste.”</p><p>“I’m glad you think so,” Dean replied. “Can I - I don’t know what to call you.”</p><p>“My name is Castiel” was the reply. “But Cas is preferable.”</p><p>“Cas,” Dean repeated, testing out the name in his mouth. “Alright. Well. I’m glad the book changed your mind.” He was usually much better with his words, but something about Cas’s voice - deep, a little rumbly - was tying up his tongue.</p><p>“I’d like to return the favor, if that’s alright.”</p><p>In front of him, Dean’s laptop went to sleep, tired of waiting. The room was dark now, but Dean felt lit up from the inside. “How do you mean?”</p><p>“Lunch?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They had lunch on Tuesday at a bustling little bistro a few blocks from Cas’s workplace. Cas was a benefits advisor for a local insurance company and had a flexible schedule, so when Dean looked at his watch and saw that they’d been talking for two hours, he didn’t feel the need to cut things short.</p><p>But then Cas asked what Dean did for a living, and Dean suddenly wished he’d asked for the check. </p><p>“I can’t believe I didn’t ask earlier,” Cas said. “We were so caught up talking about the book. I haven’t made you late to work, have I?”</p><p>Dean waved away Cas’s concern. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he said. Truthfully, he’d purposely dodged the question, but apparently making friends meant getting to know each other. “I’m a - an editor. I freelance, mostly.”</p><p>Cas’s eyebrows rose. “I see why you’re so well-read, then,” he said. “What kind of books do you work with?”</p><p>The answer was not a straightforward one, mostly because Dean was lying out of his ass. He took a sip of water to stall. “Well,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I… work in sci-fi, mostly.”</p><p>“I see,” Cas said, examining Dean’s face. He frowned. “Have I made you uncomfortable?”</p><p>“No, no,” Dean said, laughing to cover up his nerves. “It’s just - some of the authors I work with - y’know, they’re - secretive about - “</p><p>Cas held up a hand. “I understand,” he said, smiling politely. “Certain… subgenres... are unfortunately stigmatized. We can change the topic. What are your feelings about poetry?”</p><p>It took a few moments for Cas’s words to sink in. Dean’s ears heated at the conclusion Cas had reached, but he’d been given an opportunity to move past the question for the foreseeable future and he was going to take it, assumptions be damned. </p><p>He cleared his throat. “Poetry? Honestly I don’t read too much of it.”</p><p>“You should,” Cas said. “If you enjoyed Campbell’s book, you’d enjoy certain poets, I think. There were some great moments of poetry in the second half especially.”</p><p>Dean disagreed, but there was no reason to say that. “Yeah, I dunno, poetry’s not my cup of tea.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>Dean shrugged. “Not much poetry in my life, I guess. The poems I’ve read have always fallen flat.”</p><p>Cas nodded in understanding, but the set of his mouth told Dean he wasn’t quite convinced. </p><p>Eventually the check arrived, and Dean quashed the bead of disappointment that took up residence in his chest. Upon exiting the restaurant, however, Dean’s disappointment turned to surprise when Cas turned to him and said, “I’m usually free for lunch if you’d like to meet up again.”</p><p>“Sounds great,” Dean said, this time only moderately distracted by Cas’s eyes in the sunlight. “I’ll message you.”</p><p>Cas smiled and raised a hand in farewell before starting on his way back to his workplace. Dean bit down on a grin and dug his keys out of his pocket.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dean messaged Cas two weeks later and made plans for lunch.</p><p>After that, it was easy enough to fall into a routine. Their schedules allowed them to make time for each other easily, so before Dean knew it, only a few months after meeting Cas in that bookstore, they were seeing each other at least once a week - sometimes for lunch, sometimes for dinner, and sometimes just because. </p><p>It was an easy enough friendship. Cas was a little odd, yes, but only in the way a four-leaf clover was odd - odd only because he was remarkable and one-of-a-kind and made Dean remember sunny days when all he saw was rain.</p><p>What Cas saw in Dean, on the other hand, Dean had no idea. He didn’t ask, content not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and simply tried his best not to scare Cas away.</p><p>He risked it all one day, however, to introduce Cas to <em>Dr. Sexy, </em>his favorite TV drama<em>. </em>It succeeded in one way - Cas became a fan - and backfired in all the rest - Cas consequently became obsessed.</p><p>“I don’t understand it,” he said one day, putting his phone face down on Dean’s dining table, and looking at Dean, distraught. “It’s a horrible show. The writing is poor, characterization inconsistent - but I can’t stop browsing through Twitter for news.”</p><p>Dean was chopping onions for chili. “You’ll feel better once you stop fighting it,” he said, blinking rapidly through the stinging of his eyes.</p><p>Cas sighed heavily as he pushed himself away from the table. “I blame you, you know,” he said, maneuvering around Dean to take a peek in the fridge. “I’ve lowered my standards of storytelling since meeting you.” </p><p>“‘Ey,” Dean protested. He sniffed. A tear fell from an irritated eye. “That’s rude.”</p><p>Cas shoved a paper towel in his face. “Crybaby.”</p><p>Dean took the paper towel and mopped at his eyes. “Says the guy who sobbed his way through half of the last finale.”</p><p>Cas put his beer bottle down with a forceful <em>clink </em>on the counter. “They butchered my favorite character, Dean. Literally <em>and </em>figuratively. I think I’m entitled to a little frustration.” He stomped off, probably to sulk on the couch.</p><p>“Dinner in 20,” Dean called out, tossing the paper towel in the trash. He didn’t realize he was smiling until he saw his reflection on his phone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>December arrived and Dean found himself alone on a Friday night for the first time in a few months. </p><p>Cas had called a few hours prior and canceled their movie night. “It’s our busiest season, and one of my accounts hasn’t met participation, so I have to work into the weekend. I apologize, Dean.”</p><p>Dean had assured Cas it was fine - “No harm done; don’t work yourself too hard” - but then he’d ended the call and felt something that he identified as <em>disappointment</em>, and he realized that despite having just seen Cas two days prior, he’d still been looking forward to seeing Cas again.</p><p>Dean sat with that realization for a long time, unmoving on the couch, his phone held loosely in his hand. He imagined Cas - sitting in his little cubicle, phone held up to his ear, squinting against the light of his computer monitor because he still didn’t know how to turn down the brightness - and then he imagined Cas at Dean’s apartment door, in his kitchen, on his couch, eating his food, smiling at Dean.</p><p>He imagined Cas and he imagined himself right next to him, and maybe, Dean thought helplessly, he’d have to reconsider his stance on poetry because Cas made him want to write sonnets.</p><p>Dean ran a hand over his face, unsure about what to do about this new complication. Then he remembered the beer that he’d bought for movie night and proceeded to the fridge, intending to get well and truly drunk. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he woke up the next morning, he had a pounding headache and a notepad full of drunken lovesick poetry in his hand.</p><p>
  <em>Your voice echoes across the days I haven’t seen you,<br/>
A chasm 48 hours wide.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next time Dean saw Cas was a week later, only a few days before Christmas. He knocked on Dean’s door and smiled wanly when Dean let him in. </p><p>“You look dead on your feet, Cas,” Dean said as a greeting. “You feelin’ okay?”</p><p>Cas was shedding his coat - a proper one this time - and said, “Better now that I’m here.”</p><p>He might as well have gotten down on one knee. Biting his tongue, Dean returned to the kitchen and resisted the urge to knock himself out with his cast-iron pan. </p><p>“What’s on the agenda tonight?” Cas asked. He must have just come from work because he still had a tie on. He loosened it as he walked to Dean’s couch.</p><p>“Didn’t really have an agenda,” Dean admitted. “I was in charge of the food and the booze.”</p><p>“You’re always in charge of the food and the booze,” Cas said, smacking Dean’s remote control against the palm of his hand and frowning when it still didn’t work.</p><p>“That means you’re in charge of the entertainment.”</p><p>Cas looked at Dean from across the apartment. There was dawning glee in his eyes as he realized his power. “<em>Dr. Sexy </em>marathon?” </p><p>It was difficult to feign exasperation when all Dean had wanted for the past week was Cas curled up on his couch. “Seriously, you need another hobby.”</p><p>
  <em>For as long as you please<br/>
I will be your mirror image on my couch,<br/>
Content to abandon my own reflection<br/>
For as long as you please.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Cas, I swear to god, if you’re spoiling yourself for the episode tonight - “</p><p>Cas looked up from his phone, seeming to come out of a trance. He looked around at the other restaurant patrons as he straightened in his seat. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just reading something rather engrossing.”</p><p>“Were they spoilers, Cas?” Dean demanded.</p><p>Cas shook his head. “No, just some poetry.”</p><p>Dean fiddled with his straw. “Whose?”</p><p>“Campbell’s. It’s on his blog.” Cas’s eyes lost focus again as he stared off into the distance.</p><p>Dean had learned that Cas just needed time in his own head sometimes - so he sat back and allowed Cas a moment of indulgence while Dean had his: leaning back in his chair and memorizing the angle of Cas’s jaw, the minute furrow of his brow. </p><p>Cas shook himself out of his reverie a few seconds later, giving Dean a close-lipped smile. “I know you’re not a big poetry fan, but you should read it.”</p><p>“Already read it,” Dean said, biting down on a grin when he saw Cas’s surprise. “Dude, I introduced you to his stuff - you think I don’t know what he’s up to?”</p><p>“Of course,” Cas said, looking at least slightly abashed. “I just didn’t think you’d take the time to read his poetry.”</p><p>“It’s like, what - 10, 12 lines? It’s not exactly Tolstoy.”</p><p>“Have you read Tolstoy?”</p><p>Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, reaching for his beer. “Really, Cas?”</p><p>“I’ll take that as a no,” Cas said, smiling at Dean. </p><p>
  <em>How he spares joy for me<br/>
As if it isn’t a good<br/>
That people beg for on street corners,<br/>
As if he’s multiplying joy in his free time,<br/>
A conductor of miracles.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Cas called him twice that night: the first time to rant about the <em>Dr. Sexy </em>episode that had just aired, then the second time to say, “I never got your thoughts on Campbell’s poetry.”</p><p>Dean was tired and buzzed from two thumbs of whiskey. “It was pretty good,” he said, staring at the opposite end of the couch where Cas’s near-constant present had made an indent in the cushion.</p><p>“Any specific points you wanted to make?” Cas prodded.</p><p>“This a pop quiz or something?” Dean grumbled.</p><p>There was a smile in Cas’s voice. “I enjoy learning about your tastes.”</p><p>Dean closed his eyes and stifled a pained, lovesick sigh. He cast his mind back to the poem. “I mean - the line about ‘eyes like the sky’ or something. That was - that was cool.”</p><p>“Kind of a cliche,” Cas mused, “but well done when taken in context: <em>eyes like the sky / but it’s falling and I can’t look away.”</em></p><p>Despite himself, Dean found himself drawn into the conversation. “I was thinking it’d be better if the line went ‘<em>eyes like the sky / but it’s falling and I </em>won’t<em> look away.’ </em>‘Won’t’ implies a choice, y’know?”</p><p>There was a moment’s silence as Cas contemplated this. “I agree,” he said eventually. “‘<em>I still can’t look away</em>’ implies some sort of compulsion. Saying that they <em>choose</em> not tolook away despite impending doom is… profound. You should try your hand at poetry, Dean. You have good instincts.”</p><p>Dean snorted into the phone.</p><p>Another affectionate smile brightened Cas’s voice. “I’ll take that as a no.”</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes work overwhelmed Cas. Whenever it did, he’d arrive at Dean’s apartment and silently seat himself at Dean’s dining table. He’d put his head in his hands and shake his head when Dean asked him any questions.</p><p>Eventually Dean learned to simply brew Cas a cup of chamomile tea and wait him out, and sooner or later Cas would shake himself out of his stupor and reach for the tea, inhaling the fragrance deeply before casting a grateful look at Dean.</p><p>“I don’t remember what I did to feel better before meeting you,” Cas admitted one day, halfway through his mug of tea. He was examining the label on the tea bag intently. </p><p>Dean was leaning against his counter. He looked down at his socks. Embarrassment stopped up his vocal cords.</p><p>“Did I really just go straight home after a bad day?” Cas mused out loud. He wrapped his palms around the mug and stared into it. “I’m not sure I could ever go back to that.”</p><p>“My door’s always open to you,” Dean said sincerely. He said it to the fridge, though, because looking at Cas at that moment was too much. “I mean that.”</p><p>Cas smiled his thanks, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.</p><p>A silence descended. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy and thick, and the longer it went on, the more Cas’s face revealed that something else was bothering him.</p><p>Dean straightened up, his decision made. “Alright, movie night’s canceled,” he proclaimed. He patted his pocket for his phone and wallet, then picked up his keys on the table. “Let’s go for a drive.”</p><p>Cas’s expression was pure gratitude and affection. “You indulge my moods too often, Dean.”</p><p>“That supposed to be a criticism or something?” Dean asked, unimpressed. He gestured for Cas to stand up. “Chop chop, buddy.”</p><p>Cas drained his tea, gathered up his coat, and joined Dean at the open door. He pressed a warm hand to Dean’s arm in thanks.</p><p>They seated themselves in the Impala a while later, and Dean drove them out onto the freeway. Cas didn’t ask where they were going, and even if he had asked, Dean would have had no answer. He’d just wanted to give Cas time to think in a space where nothing was expected of him, and that space was here, in Dean’s car, where all Cas needed to do was exist.</p><p>Dean drove for half an hour, then half an hour more. He’d turned down the music five minutes into the drive in respect to Cas’s mood. Eventually, though, after an hour in near-silence, Cas reached forward and turned up the dial, signaling that he was ready to return to Dean. Some vaguely familiar pop song filled the silence.</p><p>Dean grinned at Cas. Cas smiled back.</p><p>“Up to you, man,” Dean said - the first words he’d said in an hour. “I can turn back or keep driving. I’m happy with either.”</p><p>Cas smiled at the road. “I think I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself. Let’s go back, Dean.”</p><p>“You got it.”</p><p>Cas was quiet on the drive back, but Dean filled the silence with intermittent bouts of bad singing, and it was worth embarrassing himself to see Cas’s usual exasperated expression again.</p><p>They arrived at Dean’s apartment building, and Cas yawned into a hand when he closed his door. “You can head up without me,” he said to Dean over the roof of the car. He dug his car keys out of his pocket and gestured to his car, a block away. “I think I’ll head home.”</p><p>Dean gave him a skeptical look. “You gonna be okay?”</p><p>Cas lingered by the Impala’s trunk and smiled softly at Dean as he approached. “I’m feeling much better than before, Dean. Thank you.”</p><p>Dean put his hands in his pockets and kicked a pebble from the road. “Door’s open any time, Cas.”</p><p>When he looked up, Cas was still smiling at him. Even in the darkness, his eyes were affectionate. “It’s not your apartment that makes me feel better, Dean.”</p><p>Dean saw where this was going. He ducked his head again and, though he knew he’d regret it, begged shamelessly for Cas’s words: “Yeah? Then what is it?”</p><p>“You,” Cas said. Simply. Easily. Like nothing was stopping him.</p><p>Dean’s instinct was to laugh it off, but he stifled it, letting Cas have his moment of sincerity even if it made Dean’s skin itch with embarrassment. </p><p>“Whatever, man,” he said. He looked up at his apartment window. “Offer still stands. Just knock.”</p><p>“I mean it, Dean,” Cas said, because apparently he wasn’t done trying to kill Dean with affection. “Meeting you in that bookstore changed my life.”</p><p>Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, dude,” he said, “I get it.”  He grumbled, but still he reached forward to pull Cas in for a one-handed hug.</p><p>Cas laughed, his breath warm against Dean’s shoulder. His hand was a brand against Dean’s back. “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to hug so resentfully.”</p><p>Dean stepped away from the hug and shoved Cas toward the direction of his car. “Good night, jackass.”</p><p>
  <em>Your words are honey sickly-sweet<br/>
And cling to my bottom lip<br/>
I will pretend they are not there<br/>
But I taste them all the same</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The business trip was only supposed to last a week, but a hurricane knocked out the power for most of New England and stranded Cas in his Boston hotel. </p><p>“You guys bein’ told to evacuate or - or what?” Dean asked over the phone, failing to disguise the tension in his voice.</p><p>“No evacuation orders up here. It’s not as bad as farther down south.” Cas’s voice was soothing, but Dean could hear the wind rattling Cas’s window. </p><p>“It sounds like the goddamn apocalypse over there, Cas.”</p><p>Cas was smiling when he answered. “It’s fine, Dean. The wind’s only slightly worse than a regular storm.”</p><p>A loud, resounding <em>crack </em>sounded across the line, and Dean flinched. “The hell,” he said. “Celebrating the Fourth early or somethin’?”</p><p>“Must be another blown transformer,” Cas murmured. </p><p>Dean quashed an inappropriate Optimus Prime joke. “Power still out where you are?”</p><p>“They’re having issues with the generator.” A beep, then a short pause. “Seems like my phone’s going to die at any moment, too.”</p><p>Dean curled his fingers into his bedspread. “Will you - you’ll be okay, right?”</p><p>“I’ll be back in three days max.”</p><p>“No, I mean right now. There’s a hurricane at your front door, if you didn’t realize.”</p><p>“I know it sounds like the world’s ending, Dean, but it’s only a mild hurricane. Minimal risk, so long as I stay put.”</p><p>“Good,” Dean said. “Good. Stay put.”</p><p>Cas was smiling again. “Reminds me of Campbell’s poem. ‘<em>Eyes like the sky / but it’s falling and I can’t look away.’”</em></p><p>“‘<em>Won’t</em>,’” Dean corrected. </p><p>“Of course - so the speaker has a choice,” Cas recalled. “But I think if I had a choice in that situation, you’d tell me to evacuate.”</p><p>A pause. Dean gazed at his dark ceiling. His fan squeaked.</p><p>Cas yawned. “When I get back I hope to read some of your own p - ”</p><p>Three short beeps told Dean the call had dropped. Sighing, still struggling to swallow down his panic, Dean put his phone on his nightstand. He stared at the swing of his ceiling fan and thought about Cas - alone and in the dark, just like Dean - until sleep claimed him.</p><p>
  <em>I was born to die with him,<br/>
Of old age or fire or water,<br/>
At the hands of a benevolent doctor,<br/>
Or of ancient gods.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Picking Cas up from the airport was an ordeal, mostly because the relief at seeing Cas in his passenger seat made Dean a little lightheaded in the middle of airport traffic.</p><p>“Not gonna lie, Cas - I’m glad to see you,” he said, navigating the Impala out of the waiting area.</p><p>Cas was a rumpled and tired mess in the passenger seat. “Why would you lie about that in the first place?” he asked, stifling a yawn.</p><p>Dean paused, thrown for a loop. “Good point,” he eventually mumbled. Why <em>would</em> he lie about his affection for Cas? Why would he lie to Cas, period?  </p><p>All of the lies he’d told over the past year of their friendship nagged at Dean’s conscience. When he’d told them, they’d been necessary ones, ones meant to be practical and safe, but here in this moment, with Cas nodding off in his passenger seat, trusting Dean with his safety and property? None of the lies seemed necessary any more.</p><p>
  <em>Can I visit your dreams<br/>
To soften the blow I have to deliver,<br/>
To follow it with band-aid kisses<br/>
That I hope you’ll return</em><br/>
</p><p>
  <em>When you wake</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>Cas spent the next few weeks in a mess of “meetings, presentations, and misery,” as he referred to it over the phone. </p><p>“Just make sure you’re eating,” Dean reprimanded him one night, holding his phone to his ear. In Cas’s absence, Dean had settled in front of his laptop to work and had made good headway on his latest project.</p><p>Cas made a distracted noise. Dean heard the clicking of a retractable pen.</p><p>“When was the last time you ate?”</p><p>A pause. Another click of a pen.  “This morning?”</p><p>“This morning,” Dean repeated. “It’s 8PM, Cas.”</p><p>Cas sighed into the phone. “I know. I’ll find something when I’m done with this.”</p><p>“I’m hanging up,” Dean said. “And when I hang up, you’re going to get up and get some food. You’re going to take a picture of it and send it to me.”</p><p>“Dean - “</p><p>“Hanging up - bye.”</p><p>Cas sent him a picture of a sandwich five minutes later. It was a sad sandwich, but it was a sandwich nonetheless, so Dean just sent a thumbs-up and got back to his own work. For the rest of the week, Cas sent Dean pictures of his food, and Dean did the same for Cas. </p><p>When all of it was over, Cas showed up at Dean’s door looking exhausted. Still, he smiled at Dean and pressed a warm hand to Dean’s shoulder in greeting as he passed through the doorway.</p><p>“Hey,” Dean said, closing the door. “You’re in a good mood.”</p><p>“I am,” Cas said, seating himself at Dean’s dining table. Then, casually: “Because I quit my job.”</p><p>Dean still had his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t move. “Wow,” he said eventually, turning to look at Cas. </p><p>Cas was watching him carefully.</p><p>“That’s a big move,” Dean said, approaching the dining table. </p><p>“I know,” Cas agreed. “But it’s what I needed.”</p><p>Dean settled at the counter, leaning against it as they stared each other down. It was obvious Cas was waiting for his judgment, but Dean had no idea why. “I’m not gonna disagree with you, Cas. You weren’t happy there. You sure you’re gonna be okay cash-wise, though?”</p><p>Cas nodded, his hands locked together on the table like he was at a job interview. “I’ve got enough to sustain me through a pretty lengthy job search. My accounts are still paying dividends, too, so I’m not completely without income.”</p><p>Dean couldn’t figure out why Cas was acting so strangely, but he decided not to ask. He walked to the fridge and drew out two beers. “Looks like we have something to celebrate tonight, then,” he said, as he popped them open. He handed one to Cas. “What’s your next move?”</p><p>Cas looked unsure. “Job search, I suppose. I might explore a different field, something more suited to my tastes.”</p><p>Dean leaned against the counter again. “Fresh start.”</p><p>“Yes,” Cas agreed, though his tone was preoccupied. “Fresh start.” </p><p>Silence. Dean drank his beer. The seconds passed. Cas picked at the label on his bottle. </p><p>Eventually Cas pushed his beer to the side with determination. He pushed his palms flat against the table like he was willing them to stay still. “Also…” he said. He raised his eyes to Dean. There was pink in his cheeks even though he hadn’t touched a drop of beer. “I was hoping to spend more time with you.”</p><p>Blood rushed in Dean’s ears when the words registered. He and Cas already spent every spare moment together, so it was humanly impossible for Cas to spend any more time with Dean - but Dean knew exactly what Cas meant anyhow. It wasn’t a difficult concept to grasp, after all, that just as Dean had been falling in love, so too had Cas been. </p><p>He watched Cas carefully in the moments that followed. Blue eyes wide and apprehensive, posture straight, lips parted. Dean loved him so much it hurt, but that only made Dean’s lie all the more painful.</p><p>His bottle threatened to slip out of his grip, but he caught it just in time and placed it on the counter. </p><p>“Cas, I have to tell you something.” He said it before he could change his mind, because if he didn’t say it now, it would never be said.</p><p>Cas’s face fell for the barest moment but Cas hid his disappointment quickly. He shook his head. “I don’t need pity, Dean - Just say you don’t - “</p><p>“No,” Dean interrupted, startling Cas. Dean looked Cas in the eye and begged him to understand. “Cas, I get it. I do. And me too, alright? Me too. But you need to know something before - before.”</p><p>The ambivalent mask failed, so Cas covered his eyes with a palm. “Dean, if you tell me you have a family hidden somewhere, I swear to god - “</p><p>Dean was halfway to his desk. He felt manic in that moment and despite himself, he laughed a little. He’d miss Cas desperately if this went wrong. “You gotta stop rewatching that episode, Cas.”</p><p>Cas didn’t say anything. When Dean returned, holding a stack of paper from his desk drawer, Cas still had a hand over his face. </p><p>Dean reached out to touch Cas’s shoulder but thought better of it. He put the stack of paper on the table in front of Cas instead. “Cas,” he said gently.</p><p>When Cas removed his hands, his eyes were tired but they were at least dry. He caught sight of the paper. “What is this?” he asked, picking it up. He read the title page: </p><p>Eyes Like the Sky: A Poetry Collectionby Dean Campbell </p><p>Cas looked up at Dean. Confused, he said, “A manuscript. Is this real?”</p><p>Dean had his keys in hand. He examined them. Instead of answering, he said, “I’m gonna go for a drive. Be back in an hour or so.”</p><p>“Dean?” It was beginning to sink in, and Dean could see it. Cas’s eyes were wide and wary. “What’s going on?”</p><p>Dean swallowed down his terror. He walked to the door, hands shaking. “If you’re not here when I get back... I get it,” he said. </p><p>As he opened the door, he looked back at Cas, in case it would be the last time. Dean committed it to memory: Cas wearing his white button-down, rumpled from his seat belt; tie undone; eyebrows furrowed as he watched his best friend abandon him to the silence of a liar’s apartment.</p><p>Dean turned away and left, throat tight, knowing that soon, too soon, Cas would turn back to the papers in his hand and flip to the second page in the stack, where he would see the dedication:</p><p>
  <em>To Cas,<br/>
Guess I found some poetry in my life after all.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The freeway was Dean’s second home, but it offered no comfort that night. </p><p>The more he thought about what he’d done, the more foolish he felt. All Cas had said was that he wanted to spend more time with Dean - it had been a simple, innocent request - but in response, Dean had felt the need to reveal the absurd truth: that he’d been writing poetry about Cas, and what’s more, that he’d been writing it under a different name - a famous name, a name that Cas had used to refer to a man whom he thought was a stranger. A man who was actually Dean.</p><p>And on top of that, <em>Dean had shown Cas the poetry?</em></p><p>Dean was a liar and a dumbass, and if he returned to an empty apartment instead of one crawling with cops ready to arrest him for being a creep, he’d be lucky.</p><p>At least this way Cas can’t knock me out, Dean thought.</p><p>It was one small consolation in a whole big mess of dumbassery, and the longer Dean drove, the more nauseous he felt, the tighter he gripped his steering wheel. The buildings and landmarks he drove past were all reminders of what he’d written - poems about Cas’s eyes and his hands, about his kindness and his devotion, about his tea and his socks, about the one time Cas had taught Dean the difference between paisley and floral patterns in the middle of the Macy’s home department. Poems about falling in love.</p><p>He felt exposed and raw and mortified, knowing that Cas was right at that moment reading the contents of his soul, a poetry book that amounted to a 25-page love letter, and he hated that he had done it to himself.</p><p>He supposed it was penance of a sort for lying to Cas for so long, and that consoled him. </p><p>It was 45 minutes later, debating whether or not he could stomach the fallout if he returned to Cas still in his apartment, that he realized the only real penance would be to return and face the consequences regardless.</p><p>So he did.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>By the time Dean parked the Impala, he’d been gone for 90 minutes. He wasted five more minutes staring at his apartment window from his car, and another five wasting away in front of his own door, terrified by what he might find (or not find) in his apartment.  Only when another door down the hall opened did Dean insert his key and turn the doorknob, holding his breath all the while.</p><p>Once he closed the door behind him, he found himself staring down a wide-eyed Castiel, still sitting at the dining table. Dean felt as terrified as Cas looked, and Cas looked terrified enough to bolt. Why <em>he</em> was terrified, Dean couldn’t comprehend. Maybe Cas was terrified of the crimes Dean was capable of, and maybe law enforcement was coming to serve justice.</p><p>“That was nearly two hours,” Cas said, after a heavy pause. His throat bobbed when Dean looked at him. “You said one.”</p><p>Dean hadn’t moved from the door; at this point, he was doubting his knees would let him without buckling. He shrugged. “I said ‘an hour <em>or so</em>.’”</p><p>“‘Or so,’” Cas repeated.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Cas ducked his head. Dean’s eyes landed on the manuscript laying open in front of Cas, flipped to a page somewhere in the middle, reiterating the horrible truth that Cas had read at least some of Dean’s poetry, and making Dean want to abandon his apartment altogether for a life in the remote hills of Scotland where he’d never have to speak to another human being ever again.</p><p>Dean leaned against the door. “I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he admitted.</p><p>Cas fixed Dean with a look, still looking wary. “I figured I’m owed an explanation.”</p><p>Dean had given Cas the manuscript in the hopes that it would be explanation enough. He never intended to admit to anything out loud. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”</p><p>“You handed me an unpublished manuscript supposedly written by Dean Campbell but dedicated to me. It’s full of poetry. That’s all I know for sure. So to answer your question, no, it’s not ‘pretty obvious.’”</p><p>Dean took a few tentative steps forward. “Cas, c’mon. You’ve gotta have an idea.”</p><p>There was pink high in Cas’s cheeks. “The ideas I have are all absurd.” He swallowed. Flipped through the manuscript, turned it around and flipped through it again. </p><p>When he spoke again, his voice was shaky. “This - all of this - when you left you said you had something to tell me, but you told me nothing. <em>This</em> tells me nothing.” When he looked up and met Dean’s gaze, his eyes were shining with frustrated tears. “I sat here for an hour and a half trying to piece together a story that made sense, but nothing made sense. And you weren’t here to - you weren’t here.“</p><p>It occurred to Dean all at once that he’d fucked up more than he thought he had. Dean had fucked up bad. <em>It’s not your apartment that makes me feel better, </em>Cas had once said. <em>It’s you. </em></p><p>Cas had knocked on Dean’s door two hours ago, tired but content, looking forward to sharing a part of his life with Dean, but then Dean had thrown this mess at him and hadn’t even had the goodness of heart to stick around and help Cas make sense of it. No wonder Cas had looked so terrified.</p><p>Dean swallowed his terror and joined Cas at the dining table. He touched the manuscript and did his real penance: he told the truth. “This... is <em>my</em> manuscript,” he said to Cas. “I’m - I’m Dean Campbell. I’m not an editor.”</p><p>Cas pressed his palms into his eyes and swallowed thickly. “You’ve been lying to me,” he said. His voice shook, but it was fierce. Angry.</p><p>“I’ve been lying to you,” Dean confirmed softly.</p><p>“Since we met.”</p><p>Dear bared his back to the whip of Cas’s words. “Since we met.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>This, at least Dean could answer, though heat climbed up his jaw in mortification: “You’re my best friend, Cas, but I - neither of us knew it’d be like this when we met. By the time I trusted you, we’d been friends for months and there was never a good time to…”</p><p>“To tell the truth,” Cas finished.</p><p>Dean sighed. “Should I have just sprung it on you? Regular old Tuesday over lasagna or something? ‘Hey, great lasagna - by the way, that book I bought you? The one we analyzed over lunch three months ago? I wrote it. Also that blog we talked about? Mine too. Surprise! How’s your brother?’”</p><p>Cas’s sigh was frustrated. “Dean, I would have preferred that. At least that would have been you taking responsibility. Were you even ever going to tell me?”</p><p>“I dedicated the goddamn book to you, didn’t I? Of course I was going to tell you.”</p><p>“When?”</p><p>Dean made a vague gesture. “When the time came.”</p><p>Cas snorted derisively. </p><p>Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I fucked up, alright? I did. And I’m sorry. But I didn’t keep this from you to hurt you. Dean Campbell is anonymous for a reason - so I can be Dean Winchester in peace.”</p><p>Cas looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were as shiny as glass. “I understand that. But I still feel like a fool, Dean.”</p><p>Dean bowed his head.</p><p>“You didn’t just lie by omission. You played along and perpetuated the lie. We talked about Campbell like he was a real person.”</p><p>“He is a real person,” Dean said softly. “He’s me.”</p><p>A silence fell. For a long time neither of them moved, but as long as Cas wasn’t moving away, Dean would take it. He’d take this stillness forever if it meant never truly losing Cas.</p><p>Cas heaved a huge sigh eventually. He stood up. Dean closed his eyes; they stung all of a sudden. He steeled himself for the sound of the door opening, then closing. He steeled himself for silence.</p><p>But then he heard a cupboard opening. Water from the tap. A burner clicking on. </p><p>Dean couldn’t help himself. His head shot up. “Are you making <em>tea</em>?” </p><p>“I don’t see you making it for me,” Cas snapped. His voice was still shaky.</p><p>Dean stared at the back of Cas’s head, stunned. Meanwhile, Cas stared at Dean’s kettle, stubbornly waiting for the water to boil. </p><p>Barely able to believe that there was still a chance their friendship could be mended, Dean asked, “Do you <em>want</em> me to make it?”</p><p>Cas was silent for a beat, then another. Eventually he said, “I don’t know where you keep the honey,” which was answer enough.</p><p>Dean stood up. Gently, apologetically, he nudged Cas away from the stove and pulled the honey and tea box from where he kept it tucked away. Then with Cas standing at his elbow, he made Cas some tea: hot water, a tea bag, a squeeze of honey, in a mug handed to Cas with shaking hands. It was an olive branch.</p><p>Cas took the mug carefully and stared into its contents. The smell of chamomile floated between them. Finally Cas looked up and met Dean’s nervous gaze. “I’ve tried to make it the way you do,” Cas admitted, “but it’s not the same.” He turned away to sit at the table again. “Thank you,” he said quietly.</p><p>They sat down together. Dean’s knee knocked against Cas’s. They stared at the manuscript in front of them. Cas flipped a page, then another, taking a few seconds on each. Dean saw the words he’d written and had to close his eyes to keep himself from begging Cas to stop.</p><p>“So you expect me to believe,” Cas said, very slowly, “that this is your work.”</p><p>Dean had to laugh. “I may be an asshole but I’m not a thief, dude.”</p><p>Cas covered his face with a hand. “So you wrote ‘Eyes Like the Sky.’”</p><p>Dean didn’t answer. It would take a while for Cas to wrap his head around everything, and Dean would wait for as long as Cas needed.</p><p>“You wrote ‘Eyes Like the Sky,’” Cas said again, more quietly. He removed the hand over his face and looked at Dean, his eyes wary. They were eyes like the sky.</p><p>Dean just lifted a shoulder in answer - <em>yeah, sorry, can’t do anything about it now - </em>and waited for Cas’s judgment.</p><p>Cas’s gaze never left Dean’s. “I understand that the speaker of the poem isn’t necessarily the author of a poem,” he said slowly. “But I need to know, in this case…” He trailed off. </p><p>“I’m the speaker,” Dean confirmed. He forced himself to relax the tense fists on his knees, but the tension just migrated to his jaw, his throat, his back. He was a tangle of knots, and the longer Cas stared at him the tighter the knots became.</p><p>“And the man with the eyes like the sky?”</p><p>Dean swallowed, embarrassment prickling his skin. “You really need to ask, Cas?”</p><p>“Yes,” Cas said, glaring. “I’ve already been made a fool of once tonight.”</p><p>Dean’s frustration with himself came out forcefully: “It’s you, alright?” Then, more quietly, “It’s you.”</p><p>Cas didn’t look surprised. He barely paused. “‘<em>Eyes like the sky, but it’s falling and I can’t look away</em>,’” he recited. “Why is the sky falling?” </p><p>This was the angry interrogation that Dean had expected when he’d walked back into his apartment, and strangely enough he took comfort in it. It was better than Cas with a shaking voice and tears in his eyes. “The sky’s falling because I believed I’d never have you.”</p><p>Cas faltered. He opened his mouth but no words came out. </p><p>“But I won’tlook away because it’s still the happiest I’ve ever been, being with you. It’s a choice.”</p><p>Cas’s eyes filled again.</p><p>Dean felt helpless. “Cas, please, you gotta stop crying,” he pleaded.</p><p>Cas’s eyebrows knitted together. He reached out and cradled Dean’s face. His lips shook. “I am so <em>angry </em>with you,” he said.</p><p>Horrifyingly, Dean felt his own eyes begin to sting. “Me, too.”</p><p>“But only because I love you,” Cas said, his eyebrows still furrowed, his mouth still grim.</p><p>Dean put his hand over the one on his face. He had to swallow his emotion a few times before managing to ask, “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”</p><p>That drew a laugh out of Cas. “Not a chance,” he said, voice thick. But he was leaning in with his blue eyes and looking at Dean like he hung the moon. </p><p>There was a manuscript of love poems lying open on the table, so Dean figured it was pretty obvious - but he said it anyway, because Cas had only ever wanted the truth, and this was the biggest truth of them all: “I love you.”</p><p>A joyful smile overtook Cas’s expression. The tears in his eyes overflowed, so what else could Dean do but kiss him? </p><p>When Cas kissed him back, Dean understood Cas’s tears because he was crying too. They kissed and kissed until their kisses no longer tasted like tears.</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, after waking up with limbs tangled on the couch, Cas made Dean recite the poems he’d put in his manuscript. “Only the poet knows how to recite their poetry. I want to hear the choices you make,” he explained - but there was a touch of mischief in his voice, and Dean figured this was Cas’s way of getting back at him.</p><p>It was a mortifying experience performing for a one-man audience, especially because the one man in the audience was the subject of said performance. Dean stumbled over the most personal parts and butchered the rest, but by the halfway point he learned that Cas didn’t care about the quality of the performance - in fact, after every mangled poem, instead of speaking Cas would just kiss Dean stupid, pushing him up against the end of the couch. By the end of it, Dean was reading poetry with an arm wrapped around Cas, who was busy kissing Dean’s throat.</p><p>Only when Dean finished did Cas sit back. His sky-blue eyes were dark, his breathing unsteady. “When I told you to try your hand at poetry, I didn’t think - “</p><p>Dean touched Cas’s face. It was pink. “Admit it, you didn’t think it’d be any good.”</p><p>“I didn’t think it’d be about me,” Cas corrected. He smiled. “But yes, I didn’t think it’d be good.” He paused. A furrow appeared between his brow. “I also didn’t think you’d secretly be a popular published sci-fi author.”</p><p>Dean winced. “You’re never going to forget about that, are you?”</p><p>Amusement lifted the corner of Cas’s lips. “Forget? No.” He ran a hand down Dean’s arm slowly and looked at Dean with darkening sky eyes. “Forgive? Maybe after you write me more poetry.”</p><p>Dean was already composing one in his head about the warm expanse of Cas’s skin, the warmth in his eyes. “I think I can manage that.”</p><p>Cas leaned in and kissed Dean tenderly. “Then you’re forgiven.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, before you ask, it is a cockles easter egg. :P If you know, you know. If you don't care to know, pretend I never said anything.</p><p>Also, just to cover my bases - all the poetry is original poetry of mine (though tbf it was written for the fic)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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